


Crash Into Me

by Bluejay141519



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Getting Together, I just got into this fandom, I mean, Its shit, Kissing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Well - Freeform, and i was like, and then was like brad's pov question mark???, and this wonderful person wrote like, author is tired and drowning in school work, brad means well, but - Freeform, communication?, he's not a creeper, i hath written it, maybe a little, my favorite trope, whats that?, yeah - Freeform, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluejay141519/pseuds/Bluejay141519
Summary: It wasn't like - a thing really. It wasn't. Or it shouldn't have been. Yeah. It definitely should not have been a thing.Brad throws his feeling were they shouldn't go, and his feeling throw themselves right back, and now he's in love with his best friend and doing shady sh*t that he should not be doing.(Or - his heart keeps doing a *thing*. And he can't stop.)





	Crash Into Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).
  * Inspired by [if only in a dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13298778) by [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex). 



> First tryyyy and i can't even make my own work ahahahha pls someone shoot me I am so sorry.

\----------

 

Normally, Brad can at least stick his finger on the moment of error. When he fucks up, he can generally pride himself on the fact that he does actually realize he’s  fucked up.

 

The problem with this one - and it is a problem, he needs to be clear on that - is he can’t actually decide at which point he made the decision to be dumb. 

 

Was it when he realized he was in love his Alternate, who was also coincidentally his best friend, or was it that first time, when Patrice fell asleep on his couch, and he leaned down and softly pressed his lips to his hair?

 

Or was it that first time - that very first time, when they were drunk and young and stupid - when Bergy left before morning and Brad was left with little pieces of himself missing as Patrice took them with him. 

 

Was it when he put his heart into something that  _ was not there _ or was it the six, or seventh, or eighth time he pressed a kiss to a sleeping Bergeron? Was it when it started? Or was it when he realized he couldn’t stop?

 

_ This is wrong. _ He tells himself, on late flights, when he lifts Patrice’s hand and kisses the back of it, twining their fingers for just a moment, and imagines- what if he could-

 

_ This isn’t okay. You need to stop. _

 

He knows- he does, he does know, but he can’t- he just- 

 

He sees Bergy, and he always looks so- so relaxed, so much younger and calmer and peaceful and less like the world is there on his shoulders, and his heart does that  _ thing _ in his chest, and he can’t stop himself from leaning over and brushing his lips to the center’s forehead, of his hair, or his hand, because he thinks-

 

Even if Patrice doesn’t know, even if he never will, at least whatever higher power there is can see that he’s loved. That Brad loves him. And he just wants him to be safe.

 

\-----------

 

Patrice has the unfortunate tendency to need to go all out in exactly two categories of his life - playing hockey, and getting injured. 

 

It seems like he puts all his effort into those two things, because Brad is here, once again, curled into a chair much too small for a hockey player, using Bergy’s arm for a pillow. 

 

Bergy, who’s toeing the fine line between sleep and unconsciousness, between okay and hurt, natural and artificial. 

 

Bergy, who’s in pain. And Brad, who’s not. 

 

He picks up Patrice's hand, and thinks - well, not physically anyway. 

 

The doctors give updates and nurses come in and check on their patient, but Marchand doesn’t hear any of it. Or he does, but it just slips by, and he stays focused on the hand in his, the rough calluses of Bergy’s palm, the softer skin on the back of his hand, the bruise on the knuckle. He rubs warmth back into the skin, and massages out his wrist, remembering what the trainers taught him for when he has a sore wrist. 

 

Brad wants him to be in less pain. He wants him to be comfortable. He wants him to sleep.

 

He wants him to wake up. Wants him to be okay. Wants him to be  _ his. _

 

A different nurse this time.  _ ‘Visiting hours’. _ He says.  _ ‘Come back tomorrow.’ _

 

The nurse leaves, but not before making sure that Marchy at least stands from the chair. His muscles protest, and his leg is asleep, but he still can’t just go. Not when he looks and sees him like that, sees all the wires and tubes and thin blankets that make Bergy look smaller, not when- when he saw him go into the boards, and not- not move and-

 

Not when Brad was sure he lost him.

 

But then again - Brad Marchand is a coward.

 

So he doesn’t whisper ‘I love you’ in Bergy’s ear, and he doesn’t confess anything at all about what he’s been doing. He just leans down and gives the softest kiss can manage to Patrice’s forehead, and he puts everything in it, all the pain and longing and love that he can’t speak. 

 

He leaves and comes back the next morning and falls asleep on Bergy’s arm, and misses him waking up. He takes him home when he’s better, and he gives his A the biggest hug he can manage when he realizes that Patrice is  _ okay _ and he’ll play again.

 

He tells him nothing.

 

\--------------

 

Patrice avoids him. 

 

For a small, terrifying moment Marchand is sure that he figured it out, and he hates Brad now, but he’s too nice to say anything about it.

 

Except when he nervously approaches Z about it, the quiet captain is just as confused about as he is, and if Bergy was going to tell anyone about his shit, it would’ve been him. 

 

In a moment of complete insanity, he even reaches out to Segs, which is a horrible idea, because Brad basically taught him everything he knows about making bad decisions.

 

Also, Tyler doesn’t pull his punches.

 

“That’s not what happened-”

 

_ “So you didn’t make your move on him?” _

 

“How do you know-”

 

_ “I was your bff for three years, I fucking knew. What’d he say? Are you guys together now? Because I better be invited to the wedding-” _

 

“NO!” He hisses, pacing his living room, and proceeds to tell him...all of it.

 

There’s a pause. Bergy’s going to be back any second.

 

“ _...okay I realize that maybe I don’t have the best credibility here, especially given how Jamie and I got together-” _

 

“What-”

 

“ _ -but as the world leading authority on miscommunication, you need actually fucking talk to him or you’re going to lose him. You’ve got no idea what’s going on in his head, and if he hasn’t told Z anything, and he hasn’t talked to you, then it could have nothing to do with you. He could be going through shit that doesn’t even remotely concern you, and he doesn’t know how to talk about.” _

 

“First of all- when did you stop being a little shit? Second- you wouldn’t happen to be speaking from experience are you?” 

 

_ “I’m always a little shit, it’s part of my charm. And- also possibly maybe, on that second one.” _

 

“You’re no help.”

 

_ “I just gave you like the perfect adult solution-” _

There’s a key scraping in the lock. Brad rushes a goodbye and flings his phone across the room to the couch, then pretends to be looking in the fridge when Patrice comes in and immediately starts rambling about the crappiness of Boston traffic.

 

His brain, unhelpfully focuses on two things - one is the fact that Tyler apparently  _ has known  _ about his massive crush on Patrice, and also managed to say nothing to Brad about it, which is fucking incredible if you’ve ever met the guy, and then also somehow believed that Patrice likes him back.

 

Which is- confusing, at least.

 

(Two- Tyler and Jamie are- like- when did that fucking  _ happen _ , Marchy has  _ questions _ -)

 

\-----

 

_ Why is it always me?! _

 

How does a pipe burst in  _ one _ bedroom? And why his? And why is this fucking hotel full?

 

And why is Bergeron testing him in every fucking way tonight by fucking agreeing to  _ share his bed _ with Brad?

 

Sometimes Marchy feels like his life is a sitcom.

 

_ Don’t be weird don’t be weird don’t be weird you can do this just fucking go to sleep- _

 

He can’t though. Not when- when Patrice is right there, soft and quiet, curled on his side, heat warming the air under the blankets, his hair falling into his eyes. 

 

Not when his heart is doing the  _ thing _ and it makes him feel like he can’t breathe with how much he loves him. He reaches out, and it’s like a dream, it’s been so long since he’s got to touch him, skin brushing against skin without the guise of hockey between them and Brad is so, so weak to how this makes him feel.

 

He brushes the hair from Bergy’s face, smiling fondly at the way Patrice nudges into his touch, even while he sleeps, he’s still like a fucking cat. He stares and he stares and he stares, and he breaths, and stares some more, and he’s so, so in love.

 

Brad rolls on his side, shifting his weight to an elbow, and leans down, as gentle as he can be, and gingerly presses a kiss to Patrice’s skin.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

 

Marchy springs backward so fast he gets whiplash, and he’s hit with a wave of icy shock and horror at what just happened.

 

Patrice is awake. And he’s angry.

 

Of course he’s angry, Brad’s been  _ kissing him _ while he’s  _ asleep _ and like that’s a creepy thing it doesn’t matter that Brad never touched his lip to Bergy’s, that’s not okay, and oh god he’s going to be kicked from the team and everyone’s going to hate him and no one is going to want him on their team and he’s never going to play hockey again-

 

He stumbles over an apology and does the only thing he can think of -  _ it didn’t mean anything, I know what it looks like, but I swear -  _ and it’s such a lie, such a horrible lie, and he can’t even begin to understand how Patrice was like his kryptonite, the thing that made him defy all logic, and he doesn’t know what to do but-

 

But-

 

“ _ Why the fuck do you only kiss me when I’m asleep?!” _

 

He’d said that. Bergy had said that. 

 

He’d said that right.

 

Only?

 

“Only.” He repeats, the ice in his veins cracking and melting with warm, tentative hope. “Why do I  _ only  _ kiss you when you are asleep?” His voice sounds so calm, and yet he’s standing on barely there legs, one hand gripping the comforter so tightly he’s shaking, although that last might be because of how terrified he is right now.

 

Patrice just looks at him - and then he’s saying - Brad’s had literal fucking dreams about this - 

 

He kisses Bergy like it’s the only thing left in his life to do, and his lips are warm and soft a little chapped and it makes Marchy’s heart do a different  _ thing  _ \- this  _ thing  _ more comparable to melting into a pile of warm happy goo. He kisses him and kisses and- and kisses other parts, and does other things, and the whole time he’s just a mass of adrenaline and excitement, a constant thrum of disbelief and joy.

 

Later - much, much later, when they’re home, and he’s texted Tyler several middle finger emojis, and his head is pillowed on Patrice’s shoulder, Patrice dips his head, right before he’s about to fall asleep, and slowly presses his lips to Brad’s hair. 

 

He smiles sleepily, and feels the lightness inside, and wishes, maybe for the first time since he started, that Patrice has woken up sooner.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys liked it!!! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :D


End file.
